


nurse wounds with honey

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: aziraphale finds himself lost to the hopeless situation of comforting a depressed gabriel - a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence indeed
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	nurse wounds with honey

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in early april before my lazy no caps phase rip :pensive:

“It’s my fault.” 

The sharp, short admission rocks Aziraphale in his seat, leaves him choking on the sip of brew he’d barely gotten down his throat before Gabriel started speaking. His body tenses, fingers gripping at the mug handle tight enough to leave his wrist trembling, jerking for lack of freedom. Gabriel isn’t looking at him. For the first time in his very long,  _ very _ enthusiastic existence, he isn’t meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. Even during the War, even after having lost so many of their friends, their companions, their lovers, he’d managed to smile, trying a hand at salvaging Aziraphale’s sanity.

But he isn’t smiling now. And that’s - that’s  _ excruciatingly _ unusual. Odd to the point Aziraphale’s genuinely concerned. He puts his mug to rest, sliding it across the table. It bumps into Gabriel’s clasped hands, somehow less lifeless than the living being it made contact with. Gabriel directs his attention towards the drink. His hair’s drooping over his face, it has to be obscuring his view, Aziraphale imagines. How can he possibly stand seeing like that?

“It’s my fault he’s dead. I could have done something. I could’ve helped the family, I could’ve - I could have stayed with them. Looked after him, just enough to give the parents respite.” Gabriel continues his quiet, monotone drawl. There’s nothing quiet sad in his voice yet, aside from the words it takes on, but perhaps - perhaps that’s even  _ worse _ than if he sounded truly miserable. He’s always so…  _ vibrant _ . So full of an earnest, eager emotion every waking hour of the day (which is, admittedly, all the time when you’re a working angel). Regardless of what that emotion was, he pressed it to the extent of a feeling’s limits. Sucking it dry, and exhuming it for all the glory it could possibly offer him. 

If all the other Archangels were often too cold, too sterile, then Gabriel has always been simply too  _ much. _ And usually, that’s quite a bit on the edge of intimidating for Aziraphale. He’s backed down from him more than once, been left cowering for reasons beyond his deciphering. But now, with Gabriel like this, looking so utterly drained of anything to feel, his silence is disconcerting in a way Aziraphale can only barely describe. 

Like breathing in fresh, clean air only to find its turned to water in your lungs. A rhythmic disconnection from reality, dissociation at its finest. The world isn’t meant to handle a sad Gabriel - or, at the very least,  _ Aziraphale _ isn’t meant to handle it.

Still, he gives his attempts at a quiet, quelled consoling all the effort he can summon.

“Well, the Almighty never necessitated anything of that sort. Rather, she was quite specific when she gave you your commands. Deliver the child unto Mary, and make your departure. Nothing more, and nothing less than that.” Aziraphale says, gripping the mug by its handle, and lifting it to face-level in hopes of Gabriel finally catching on to his suggestion. A good drink would do him well, he thinks. There’s always a first time for everything, after all. 

“You, of all people, would know not to interfere with her Great Plan.” he finishes the statement, smiling as Gabriel grips the brew in both hands, gingerly taking his first swallow. 

He winces as if stung. “Tastes bad.”

“Well, it’s more for how it makes you feel. Come on, have a little more. You’ll get it eventually.”

Gabriel looks doubtful. He gives the drink another go, sheepishly letting the tip of his tongue flit out to give it another quick taste. His second wince is somehow, impossibly, more disgusted than the first.

Aziraphale’s growing impatient. “If you don’t want it, just give it back to me. I don’t see why you have to - ”

His mouth stays open, but all hopes of proper, comprehensible language fall dim as Gabriel slams his head face-first into the crux of the table. Groaning quietly, longer than is generally expected of an individual in public. Aziraphale can’t help but notice the growing number of stares directed towards them. He makes a dash at recovering the situation.

“Hey, hey you don’t have to - what’s wrong, seriously? I’ve never seen you so down before.”

Gabriel’s nearly inaudible. “”S m’ fault. My fault he’s gone. I did everything wrong.”

Aziraphale, dejected as he is at this point, and at a loss for words, struggles to come up with something.  _ Anything _ he can think of that might soothe the slightest portion of Gabriel’s woes. He settles on awkwardly stroking the silky mess of his hair, letting his fingers do most of the talking for him. His palm a gentle, tender force as he lets it run against the expanse of Gabriel’s scalp.

“Oh, come on now, dear boy. You can’t possibly think you’re responsible for this. Yeshua was infinite in his kindness, and his willingness to forgive. He wouldn’t blame you for anything that’s happened.” Aziraphale tells him, the faint, churning tightness in his chest finally sinking away when Gabriel stops making his cacophony of distressed noises. Instead, he only lets out a tired, but grateful little grunt. 

His head twists to the side, and his eyes - for the first time that night - catch Aziraphale’s own.

“Miss him.” he says. 

Aziraphale nods. Still petting, considering Gabriel’s now gone as far as to nestle his head against the cusp of his hand. Asking for more in whatever way he’ll allow himself to, Aziraphale supposes. No matter, this is the right thing to do, so, as an angel, he’ll put his best foot forward, and charge the opportunity. At the very least, there’s a decent chance this will get him an off-record appraisal - hopefully a raise, if Gabriel’s feeling kind.

“I know, I do too. But you mustn't think about it any longer. Don’t linger on the things that are hurting you.”

Aziraphale stands, taking Gabriel's hand in his own.

"Come with me." he says, leading him away from the bar table - and, eventually, from the bar altogether. "You can walk me back home. I know you like looking after things like that."

And he’s right, he’s right. Gabriel’s always had a fondness for being the protector; the gentle, watchful guardian. He can do that right, at least. So long as he’s been ordered to, he’ll guard until he’s no longer needed. Until his purpose has been fulfilled.

He’s at Aziraphale’s side throughout the whole excursion. Fingers twitching where he keeps his hands dutifully balled into tempered, soft-willed fists. He’s tempted, he’s tempted - he could reach out, hold Aziraphale’s hand so easily like this. Link their arms together, feel the warm pulse of soft, sweet soft skin against his own. And he wants that so badly, so badly he just might die with it. So badly it serves as further coals to engine the licking flames he's kept swallowed down his throat for centuries now. 

But he  _ doesn't _ want to burn Aziraphale. So keeps his flames - and his urges - to himself.


End file.
